Something Vague
by theprofessorslove
Summary: Response to 2005 Coffeerooms Fanfiction Challenge. Has she always been lost? Maybe she's been grasping onto things she wasn't meant to have.
1. Winter Wonderland

_I. Winter Wonderland_

There's a dream she always has – a premonition, really – when she knows it will snow. Her mother is in it, of course – her mother is in all of her dreams, and nightmares, too – with her father, an obese Garret, an effeminate Seely (in a pink dress, no less), and one other person – a person with no face, a person she can't name. The six of them are on vacation in Vermont, skiing alone on the bunny slopes. All five people glide down the white blanket of snow (Garret is struggling a bit, and Seely is stumbling over the bottom of his dress) while she hovers above, sitting patiently (alone) on a ski lift: watching with as much glee and satisfaction as a child does on Christmas morning. A child, she is – pigtails, missing teeth, and all – and she feels a strange content, sitting there: watching as her mother; the best skier of them all; navigates through every hole and crevice she encounters, leaving all of her friends to steer themselves through the perfect, circular flecks of chilled dust that she leaves in her path. This is her mother, Jordan thinks to herself: headstrong, motivated, and haplessly perfect, in everything that she does.

In the midst of her ingenuous admiration – the simple, wholehearted devotion and love that she feels – the unwelcome stranger appears beside her mother, and without a second's hesitation, she disappears. Jordan frantically searches for her, her round, imploring eyes searching every patch of white for a glimpse of her mother, continuing her descent with a contented smile written on her lips, reassuring her anxious, fretful daughter that she is still here, that she is still skiing, that she is still making her way down the path without one obstacle in her way.

But she doesn't. In fact, all Jordan can see is an incomprehensible blur gliding in her place, navigating the path with the same success of her mother, but without the confidence, without the beauty, without the _perfection._

Jordan struggles to climb off of the lift; her bony, shapeless legs attempting to lower themselves to the ground; but she can't, she can't move, she can't scream, she can't hear. All she can do is see – she is watching a movie with no sound, a movie with no ending, a tragedy with no color – because all that was bright has disappeared and she doesn't know how to bring it back again. Instead, she is trapped in the theater, in an audience of one, and she looks away from the harsh, ugly black and white images that surround and suffocate her. Now she is moving, twirling, spinning; now she is lost.

Distressed, she looks to the others for help. Surely they must do something – "Jordan, I'm always here for you" – how many times has she heard that? Her father carries that same weary expression that he has had ever since that day when she was eleven, coming home from school with a plate of cookies and a glass of milk and a dead mother waiting for her. Garret is still struggling (maybe he should have bought a bigger ski suit) and Seely keeps tripping (maybe he should have just bought a ski suit) and she just can't move – none of them can move, they are all paralyzed without her.

And when she wakes in the morning; her skin tingling with faded, odorless sweat and her hair frizzy; she knows that there will be a blank, white blanket laid out for her over the streets of Boston. She will pause for a moment, envision herself on that slope, side by side with her mother (as it should be) but then she hears her alarm clock wail and her cell phone ring and she remembers that if everything was as it should be she wouldn't be paralyzed, she wouldn't be stuck, and she wouldn't always have to try so damn hard to move absolutely nowhere.

A/N: This is a response to the Coffeerooms Fanfiction 2005 Challenge. It will be a multi-chapter fic, and I will post more ONLY if I recieve some feedback. The title comes from a Bright Eyes song (thank you, Conor Oberst.) Keep reading!


	2. Sinking Ship

A/N: Sorry for the delay. This is a response to nccjfan's challenge on the Coffeerooms board awhile back, and now it probably makes (slightly) more sense. Chapters will be longer and more frequent, ONLY if there are more reviews. This fic takes place long after Jump Push Fall.

* * *

_II. Sinking Ship_

"Africa? You're going to _Africa_?"

Nigel quietly motioned for Jordan to lower her voice as they walked down the hallway of the morgue, dropping his head while his curious coworkers wordlessly questioned Jordan's sudden outburst. When they reached Jordan's office, however, Nigel made all of his enthusiasm apparent.

"I leave in two weeks," he declared.

"Wait a minute," she said, holding up her hands in protest. "You're going to _the_ Africa – that place halfway around the world with lions and tigers and bears oh my?"

"That's the one."

She stared at him for seconds with a look of combined shock and fascination, when a knock at her door caused her to shift her attention.

"We'll finish this conversation later, Nige," she said pointedly as she reached for the door handle.

Waiting impatiently behind the door was none other than an excitable Detective Hoyt, holding files in his arms and squirming with the anxiety of a five year old boy about to ride a bike for the first time.

"I hope I'm not interrupting anything here," Woody said as he made his way into Jordan's office.

"Absolutely not, Woodrow," Nigel replied, welcoming the distraction.

"This isn't over yet, Safari Boy," Jordan said, creeping closer to Nigel and resting her hands on his shoulders. "Maybe Farm Boy can tell you how dangerous wild animals can be when they're aching for some hearty, human flesh…"

Nigel looked unimpressed. The dramatic effect, however, was not lost on Woody, who found himself perplexed beyond belief, and frightened. "Nigel, I told you that I don't like hearing your vampire stories; you know – childhood trauma –"

"Oh, no, Woody," Jordan interrupted, making her way over to Woody's side. "Nigel's going on _safari_."

"Fashion tip, Woody," said Jordan, noticing Woody's surprised expression. "Mouth looks better closed."

He ignored her advice, and his mouth continued to hang open.

"_Safari_? Where do you go on _safari_?"

"Gee, I don't know, Woodrow," Nigel teased. "New York City? Or, if you're feeling really adventurous, check out the wild creatures in Los Angeles!"

"Excuse me, Mr. I'm-One-With-Nature, but I've never exactly desired sleeping with hyenas. So, where are you going? China? Belize? The Cayman Islands?"

"Africa," Nigel said.

"Africa," Woody echoed with a grin spreading across his face. "What part, Nigel – _Nige_ria?"

"Ghana," he replied, looking not amused.

"All right, Woody," Jordan said, standing in between the two men. "I think we should go hit the crime scene, where we were supposed to be –" she glanced at her watch "ten minutes ago. And maybe, while we're gone, Nigel will find the brain that he's obviously missing."

She wore a satisfied smile as she strolled swiftly out of the office; ignoring the death glare that Nigel was throwing her way.

* * *

The weather didn't surprise her.

There was snow on the ground, just as her dream had predicted; a pallid blanket with holes and stains where people and cars had tread. The air was thick with a ubiquitous chill that seemed to leave her paralyzed, and she felt frost seep into and underneath her bones. She wondered briefly if frostbite still left your blood red, because now, she couldn't fathom anything that wasn't an icy, cerulean blue.

"Cold?" Woody asked, his lips pink.

"A little," she murmured, the most that her frozen jaw would allow.

"Want to get a hot chocolate after all of…this?" He pointed to the lifeless body that hovered above them, held in place by a firmly knotted tie that was attached to a hook in the wall. Policemen lingered around the scene, a dank basement in a South Boston townhouse, and, based on accounts by all that knew her, a quiet, unassuming girl of twenty-two with wide blue eyes hung directly above them.

"Do you want to come to my apartment instead?" she asked.

He raised an eyebrow. "I don't even get dinner first?"

"Not like that," she said quickly. "I just have something there that I have to…attend to."

He hesitated. "Okay," he relented. "But you better have some heating system."

* * *

"I think the temperature might have gone down about twenty degrees," Woody said, rubbing his hands together. "If that's even possible."

"I'm sorry!" Jordan repeated, for about the umpteenth time, as they sat in her weathered El Camino that, to put it nicely, had seen better days. "I just haven't had any time – shit!"

A sudden gust of air blew in front of their faces, and Woody quickly retreated into his scarf while Jordan winced and continued to try and start the car.

"I'm glad your air conditioning still works," he said, as he glared at her from underneath his pink scarf covered in sky blue polka dots. (He had told her earlier that it was his niece's – Cal had a daughter? – but she didn't believe him.)

She offered him a sheepish smile. "This car has its quirks but it's a good friend to – Hallelujah!"

The car awoke with a quavering start and Jordan gave Woody a reassuring pat on the back. "See, Farm Boy – everything is going to be just fine."

* * *

"I'll get over you, I know I will! I'll pretend my ship's not _sinking_…and I'll tell myself – "

"Jordan!"

"I'm over you because I'm –"

"JORDAN!"

"WHAT?" she shouted over the music that was currently blaring in her car.

"Can we turn that down a little bit, please?" Woody asked, wincing.

She feigned hurt and begrudgingly turned off the music. "Not a Pretty Woman fan, Woodrow?"

"I'm not a 'King of Wishful Thinking' fan, thank you."

"It's a great song. Helped me through quite a few breakups."

"I'm sure." He paused. "Was I one of them?"

"Maybe," she said, glancing out of the corner of her eye as she drove. "But you were different than a breakup."

"I was?"

"Well, I felt that four years deserved something more than this" she pointed to the stereo, "so I used the theme song from Titanic instead."

"That's a comforting thought."

"Celine is there for me in times of need."

"You shop at Victoria's Secret?" he asked, pointing to the familiar pink bag in her backseat.

"Do you want the bag?" she asked. "It would go very nicely with your scarf."

"Very funny," he deadpanned. "I told you, it's –"

"—Your niece's, I know," she finished unconvincingly. "Since when did Cal have a daughter?"

"Since he met a Japanese model and impregnated her about nine months ago – or do you need me to tell you that story, too?"

"No need, Woody, I know all about the birds and the bees." She winked.

He sighed. "Can we cut back on the innuendos, Jordan? You know – since we're just friends and all?"

"Hey, you brought up the Victoria's Secret bag, not me."

He cast her a sideways glance. "What's in that bag, anyway?"

Jordan grinned. "Besides the pink polka dotted thongs and lacy negligee, absolutely nothing. Anyway, that's not your business anymore, right?"

"It never was my business," he muttered.

"For peace of mind, Woody," Jordan began, resting a hand on his knee. "I bought a Victoria's Secret Angel Bra just for _you._"

Notes: "King of Wishful Thinking" borrowed from Go West and Pretty Woman Soundtrack, "Fashion tip" line is the standard witticism from Buffy. Oh, and thanks to Vicki's Secret for allowing me the name-drop.


	3. Heart Shaped Box

A/N: Again, sorry for the delay – I promise I'll do better next time. Also, all characters in the morgue will be involved in this fic, so if you think I've forgotten Lily, Bug, Garret and the rest of the crew, you are mistaken. People and songs namedropped in the first two chapters will be brought back later, no fear. Opening lyrics are taken from "Something Vague" by Bright Eyes, title of this chapter is taken from the Nirvana song of the same name. Please review, and email me with questions/comments. I would really like to hear some feedback from you guys!

_III. Heart-Shaped Box_

_Now and again it seems worse than it is_

_But mostly the view is accurate_

_You see your breath in the air as you climb up the stairs_

_To that coffin you call your apartment_

_And you sink in the chair_

_Brushing snow from your hair_

_And drink the cold away_

_And you're not really sure what you're doing this for_

_But you need something to fill up the days_

_A few more hours…_

* * *

Garret hated Sundays.

Sure, it could have something to do with the fact that this was the day both his mother and father died, the day he became an official divorcee;, the day he lost his job, and the day his best friend became a paraplegic.

But it was also the day his daughter was born, the day he knew he had fallen in love with Maggie, the day he got his job back, and the day his best friend began to walk again.

So that couldn't be it.

It wasn't anything that substantial, or memorable, and it went much farther back. It went so far back, in fact, that sometimes Garret was convinced he must have gotten the facts wrong, because something so absolutely _dreadful_ simply could not have happened.

It was the day his cat died.

No, he didn't kill it, and neither did anyone else, for that matter; actually, it might have been more bearable if these were the circumstances. But the circumstances were less dramatic, less shocking, and much more real.

Garret had no idea – and still didn't know – what in the world killed that damn cat.

Whiskers was a silver tabby with blue eyes the color of pure, untainted pool water; but sometimes, Garret swore that his eyes turned grey in the middle of the night, when he would wake up and find a silver ball of fur curled up next to him, eyes the color of cement staring back. He remembered this look like it was his only precious memory; because it was this look exactly that he saw on Abby's face when she was younger, and it was through this look that he knew everything he ever needed to know about people. It was the saddest, most truthful look he had ever seen. It sent more pains to your heart than the worst heartbreak, but it was honest, so damn _real_, that it was more powerful than even the most decorated lie. Garret clung to this look like it was his last, his only, because it was – through _this_, through a grey that was neither black nor white, he could see clearer than he had ever seen before.

He remembered how he and his family members argued about this matter tirelessly. They claimed Whiskers had clear blue eyes – "They're as blue as a fire truck is red," his father said – but he maintained that Whiskers' eyes changed colors – "Aren't girls always saying that?" he once asked. Grey, the color of confusion, the color of madness: this is what he missed most about a childhood pet that he doubt even his brother remembered.

And then one day, he dropped dead.

Garret concluded that there was absolutely no reason for the cat to die – he wasn't old, he wasn't sick, and he wasn't killed.

He was healthy, according to the vet: "Things like this just _happen_," he told a grim-faced Garret.

And this was when Garret understood what his those eyes meant; that sometimes "things like this just _happen_" for absolutely no reason, and when they do, you have no choice but to accept them and move on.

It was for this reason exactly that he became a coroner, and it was also for this reason that he regretted it. He regretted it because he knew that this reason was true, and that identifying a cause of death as a heart attack, overdose, or cancer wouldn't explain why someone had died. Sometimes, as Garret came to understand at the tender, prepubescent age of twelve, even science has limitations.

Sometimes, 'how' didn't explain 'why.'

Sometimes, it was not a matter of explaining, but of understanding; and sometimes, the only possible thing to understand is that there was absolutely nothing to understand at all.

Death was a mystery that involved us all, the most uncertain certainty that hung over the pleasures of life the way a big rain cloud looms over sunshine.

And sometimes, there was no reason for it, no reason at all.

* * *

"A _cat, _Jordan? You have a _cat_?"

"I told you I had business to attend to!" she shouted, as she and Woody entered her apartment.

"A cat isn't business, Jordan! A cat is…well, a cat!"

In Jordan's arms, there laid a black cat the color of midnight, with fur sleek and soft as it purred softly against her chest. It eyed Woody with an expression of caution, as if to remind him that he was merely a visitor in her home. The only thing he noticed, however, was the intensity of the feline's blue eyes: the pure sapphire blue clouded with gray reminded him of a storm within the clouds. More importantly, it reminded him that he had seen those eyes before.

"Natalie just showed up one morning on my doorstep," she said, hugging it closer to her body. "I just couldn't say no…I mean, who could say no to a face like this?"

As if on cue, Natalie widened her eyes and turned her head in mock fear.

_Great_, thought Woody. _She's taught the damn animal some of her tricks. A true Jordan cat, through and through._

"I just…" Woody paused, looking flustered, "I never thought that you would like a pet, or anything – you just seemed like such a, you know, independent person that a pet would tie you down. This is just…surprising, that's all."

"Well, I'm chock full of surprises, and you would have known that if you had stuck around, Lover Boy." Even with her playful tone, the words left Woody on edge. These were things that Woody should have known – no, _could_ have known – but decisions had to be made and he had decided that he wanted a future without surprises. It was his philosophy that excitement was overrated, and so far, his philosophy had worked. It was precisely this; this accidental, lovable kitten nestled in her arms; that was a testament to why they just couldn't work. In fact, the solution to all the infinite complexities in their relationship was found in one basic, mathematic truth: the odds simply weren't in their favor. For every pleasant surprise, there were three unpleasant surprises just waiting to happen.

_A kitten can only mean so much_, he thought to himself. _But damn, it's a cute kitten_.

"Besides," she continued, "I've always swore that I would get a cat and a piano when I was older. And here she came, knocking on my door." She nuzzled her nose against the head of the kitten.

"Next thing I know, you're going to be telling me that a piano rang your doorbell," he muttered.

"And I doubt you'd be shocked."

He smiled at this. "Can I hold her?"

Jordan was surprised at how reluctant she was to let Natalie go. Admittedly, the thought of being a mother had crossed her mind many times, but she had always believed that she wasn't capable of maternal love. After all, you can't give what you never had. She was surprised – no, that was putting it mildly; she was shocked – to discover that she had these feelings, and she was even more surprised – shocked – to discover just how strong they really were.

"Sure," she said warmly, smiling as best as she could. _Nothing is going to happen to her, Jordan. He's just going to hold her._ He held out his arms as she carefully slipped Natalie against his chest. _Ohmigod, he's going to drop her. Ohmigod, Ohmigod, Ohmigod – I just killed another—Oh, good, he's got her._ _But watch her head, she doesn't like to be supported by the neck—_

"It's alright."

Jordan was about to flash him a nervous smile and admit to her matronly apprehension, until she realized that he was soothing the pet in his arms, not her. _I doubt he even thinks I'm capable of any sort of love_, she thought wryly._ Then again, neither did I._

"Woody?"

He turned his attention from the kitten to a nervous Jordan who was peering at him somewhat nervously, an emotion he had never seen before on a woman whose best trait – and tragic flaw – lied in her complete self-confidence.

"Can I ask you a question?"

"Sure," he replied. Natalie wriggled in his arms impatiently.

"Do you read philosophy?"

"Philosophy?" He snorted. "No."

"Do you believe in all that Freudian—subconscious kind of stuff?"

"Hardly." A loud _thump_ on the floor signaled that Natalie had moved onto bigger and better things. "You may have already guessed this, since I'm your typical, simple-minded Farm Boy, but I gave up thinking about things I can't –"he paused, searching for the right word, "_feel_…you know?"

He looked up at her expectantly, a gesture so simple and profound in its kindness that it rendered her speechless. She instantly saw him as that young boy in Wisconsin, the cautious older brother, the stuttering, pudgy-cheeked classmate, the loving son: eager to please. This was the Woody that she missed; no, this was a _person_ that she missed; the type of person that simply _loved _for absolutely no reason, even when they shouldn't, even when you thought they couldn't; the type of person whose happiness relied upon your happiness; the type of person who was so ineffably kind that you just couldn't help but think of the wide, imploring eyes of an abandoned puppy. Or a kitten.

"Yeah…I know," she murmured quietly.

"I guess what I'm trying to say is…all I know, and I all I care about, is what I've got."

She smiled at him then, and for what reason, he wasn't entirely sure. Often, she found herself resisting the temptation to categorize him according to who he seemed to be, and often, what even he considered as who he really was: a simple southern gentleman with Midwestern values and a Midwestern heart. Often, however, where you were from wasn't who you were. (Except in Jordan's case, of course, because no one could deny her Irish temper and Boston tomboyish charm.)

It was around this time when she remembered a jigsaw puzzle that she had completed with her grandmother years ago – it was of a kitten identical to Natalie, which (secretly) was the only reason Jordan took her in. She remembered the disappointment she experienced when she completed the puzzle, the main source being that the final product did not resemble the lovable kitten on the box, but a pathetically flawed imitation of it. She had always figured that it was better to _be_ broken – to be spread out in a million tiny, cardboard pieces all over a rich lady's carpet – than to pretend you weren't.

Obviously, Woody didn't adhere to this philosophy, because he was frantically trying to pick up the pieces – Who says things can't be put back together? And now, in moments that didn't happen as often, she realized that the effort could be just as beautiful as the picture on the box; because he was working, he was hurting; he was _trying_ for her.

He nervously shuffled his feet and looked down to floor, and Jordan realized that she had alarmed him with her sudden display of affection – or, her smile. She immediately regretted this, believing that her gesture was mistaken for condescension, but still, she couldn't help but notice how much he resembled a nervous schoolboy – shifting his feet and eyes glued to the floor – prepared to ask a girl to a dance. She allowed him to regain his composure; after all, boys must become men; before returning her gaze.

"So, Jordan," he began, in a much lighter tone. "How long have you been philosophizing?"

She smiled wanly. "I've been having these dreams—" she paused, shaking her head slightly as if she was disagreeing with herself, " and I just can't seem to…"

"—Understand them?" he offered mildly.

"I guess so," she said with a sigh. "Anyway," she had changed back into her more flippant, feminine tone now too, "that's why I decided to keep Natalie."

"The dreams were upsetting you that much? What where they about?"

"No, no—" she shook her head, "I've been waking up in the middle of the night very…very _cold_…and having a warm body there next to me just – well, I just don't feel so cold anymore, I suppose."

She was able to detect a genuine concern in the way he looked up from the floor – the girl he liked wasn't able to go to the dance – only to be replaced by his boyish anxiety – oh well, she never liked me anyway.

"Do you ever feel that way?" she asked, inching slowly closer.

He looked at her in surprise – she wants to go? – and his lips formed a straight line when his eyes met hers. "I think we all do," he said so softly that she felt her cold body being wrapped around by the gentle blanket of his words.

"So…" she approached him, her eyelids lifting themselves to his, "how do we get warm?"

He turned away then; a sharp, jagged turn off the edge of a glacier; and she felt herself grow colder until she realized that the snow surrounding them might even be warmer than they were themselves.

"You face the cold head on," he said.

Outside, snowflakes continued to fall in large, scattered clumps, and cars continued to crawl on roads slicked with ice.


	4. Everything Is Illuminated

_IV. Everything is Illuminated_

Blood made sense.

No, Nigel Townsend wasn't a vampire; no, he had never been one; and no, he had never wanted to be one.

But he had known one.

In fact, he had known many; in many shapes and sizes: vampires who thirsted for necks and backs and soft, malleable human flesh; but the worst kind, and of these Nigel knew – unfortunately – many; were the ones that thirsted for hearts.

No, he had never understood the fear of vampires, not when they were so human.

And he even understood their preoccupation with blood – it was the most beautiful, reassuring, and _sensible_ thing he had ever seen. It was bright when it first came out – Panic! Call 911! Get a band-aid! – but later turned a pensive-looking crimson that radiated an uncomfortable warmth – Call the family. Make the funeral arrangements. Grieve.

When he was working in the cancer wing of the Manchester hospital years ago, blood was the liquid that he longed for the most – water made you bloated, fruit juice gave you gas, but blood made you _full,_ complete. (Mind you, he never drank blood, but he always imagined it would feel this way – after all, he already had it in him.) And when he wheeled bald, gaunt patients down to their chemotherapy sessions daily, he wished – prayed – to see the familiar red seeping out of their diseased bones and diseased hearts. Blood signified mortality, and sometimes – no, often – Nigel had forgotten these people were alive.

But living – as he would later come to learn – wasn't the number of your white blood cells or the strength of your bones; no, it was the thickness, the _density_, of your blood.

The blood in Boston was black; as black and absent as a paved, cement road; and this didn't surprise him. After all, Boston was a concrete jungle; a city of shadows and back alleys and hidden darkness; and to this fact, the morgue was no exception.

He needed red.

It wasn't exactly fire-engine red that he desired – it was warmth: blood was something that was a part of you, a fundamental aspect of your being. In Boston, blood was cold – freezing – and it always felt exposed; something that wasn't supposed to be there, something wrong.

And so he decided to leave.

He wasn't leaving – not permanently, anyway – but he was taking a considerable leave of absence; he was going on safari to Africa. (No, he wasn't leaving because of the ebola virus, either.)

Africa was warm and sweaty and vibrant and cherry-red – the color of tomatoes at their ripest stage, nail polish at its brightest color – and he longed for it, he needed it. Sometimes he could feel the cold freezing inside of him; a cerulean blue that moved like a thick block of ice through his veins and arteries. (Plus, it never hurt to get a tan.)

Jordan and Max were snowmen: they had developed fur and hibernated when it dropped below zero; and Woody – well, Woody could deal with any climate – he could withstand the worst of temperatures. Garret and Bug and Lily had each other to use for warmth; like snowflakes falling from the sky, packed, padded snow had always cushioned their fall. It was simple, really: they belonged, and he didn't.

He adapted – he had survived the blizzard of '01 and that monster they had in '99 – but he was waning: like a winter jacket purchased many years ago, his insides were wearing thin, and his pockets had cultivated large, gaping holes.

Yes, it was as simple as that: it was time for a new coat.

* * *

_Since the majority of me_

_Rejects the majority of you,_

_Debating ends forthwith, and we_

_Divide. And sure of what to do_

_We disinfect new blocks of days_

_For our majorities to rent_

_With unshared friends and unwalked ways._

_But silence too is eloquent:_

_A silence of minorities_

_That, unopposed at last, return_

_Each night with cancelled promises_

_They want renewed. They never learn._

_--Philip Larkin_

* * *

There were days when she imagined the snow would never end, there were days when she all she wanted was to be buried. She thought it might be nice to let a blanket of snow wrap itself around you, it might be nice to just be swallowed whole. Death without the commitment, she fancied, or just not waking up from a peaceful slumber.

It might be nice, she thought, to just sleep forever.

But every morning, she found herself awaking to the dancing of shadows silhouetted in the snow. It puzzled her – no, it angered her – that something so empty, something so hollow, could be something so beautiful.

She found that she didn't want pretty anymore (had she ever?) She wanted blankets with holes, people who only made mistakes, snow with an end. Beauty was a facade, beauty was a deception: she wanted snow that wasn't beautiful, snow that was brown and hard and melting, she wanted snow to be everything she hated. She was tired of having to dig to find what she wanted, she was tired of people having to dig to find her. More than that, though, she loathed the thought of being without snow, because she knew seeing the streets clear and people smiling and the sun shining would make her long for the cold frost she knew she needed.

Jordan didn't need the cold, she knew, she _was_ the cold. Ice held her bones together (screw osteoporosis) and temperatures below zero kept her organs functioning. Emotions made her uncomfortable, mainly because she always seemed to be doing the wrong thing somehow. It wasn't so much as _wrong_, however, as it just wasn't _right._

Sometimes it seemed to her that everything had a language of its own, and that miscommunication and anger between people merely lied in misinterpretation. Maybe it was actually the emotions that were the clear, dependable things, and that it was the fault of the translator that caused heartache, pain, and confusion. She was surprised, sometimes, by the fact that she didn't hate human nature as much as she could, as much as she _could_.

Falling in love, like learning a language, required practice and dedication – and while some words were lost, often there were many that still remained.

She loved Woody and Woody loved her, this they both knew, yet the words weren't in their vocabularies, and they hadn't learned the conjugation correctly.

Or, maybe sometimes it wasn't as much a matter of learning as it was of knowing. She remembered her first love (at age five) with a boy named Bobby Cooley, and while they still had much to learn, there was even more that they already knew. During the summer they spent together at the community pool, she remembered (fondly) how they could sit on the swing sets in a comfortable silence, and she remembered (even more fondly) their first kiss: underwater, amidst misshapen bubbles and incoherent gargling noises, she could still feel the softness of his lips just barely touching hers.

Underwater, without words, their emotions had managed to transcend any possible linguistic barrier.

Something to remember, she supposed. If she took on a vow of silence, would Woody love her more?

As soon as this thought crossed her mind, she heard a knock at her door. She was expecting him (this was her role) and he had come looking for her when she didn't show up at work (and this was his.)

"Hey Wood—Garret?"

Garret took this for an invitation and made his way into her apartment, brushing the snow from his shoes.

"I don't mean to be rude, Garret, but what are you doing here?"

"Can't a boss visit his favorite employee when she decides she doesn't want to come to work?" he asked.

"Without calling," he added.

"And I'm very sorry about that," she gestured apologetically. "But after that one night last—well, I just thought you had refused to come back here."

"Special circumstances," he said. "_Very _special circumstances."

"And those would be?"

"Jordan, why do you have a cat?"

She sighed deeply, and gestured for him to sit down. "It all started when this long lost sister of mine had a baby—"

"Cut the crap, Jordan," he interrupted. "Woody tells me today that you have this adorable little kitten and, thinking of your past animal experiences, I decided it was safest for me to remove—"

He paused midsentence, gazing at the black cat that had hopped up onto Jordan's lap.

"Whiskers?" he asked, his mouth agape.

"Garret?" she inquired, noticing his expression. "Her name is Natalie."

"No, it's not," he mumbled quietly. "That's Whiskers."

"Natalie, Garret," she gently repeated. "Natalie has whiskers, but…do you want to hold her?"

Garret failed to respond, still staring intently as the cat stared back. Jordan was about to ask again when a knock at the door caused Natalie to jump off her lap and scurry away.

It was Woody at the door this time (she knew he wouldn't let her down.)

"Jordan, we need to talk," he said as she opened the door, not even pausing to take off his snow-covered coat when he entered the apartment.

"Garret?" he asked awkwardly. "I thought you weren't going to come back after that time—"

"Well, he did," Jordan finished. "And he's not talking because cat's got his tongue."

"Very funny," came Garret's reply as he lifted himself up from the couch. "I'll talk to you later, Jordan."

He paused at the doorknob. "And treat her well, okay?"

After he was gone, Woody stared at Jordan uneasily. "Really likes the cat, huh?"

"I guess so," she muttered to herself. "Anyway," she moved over to the couch, "what did you want to say to me?"

Like recovering a distant memory, he flung himself on the couch and faced her intently. "Look, Jordan, about yesterday –"

He was counting on her to interrupt him, but she didn't – she was tired of role-playing.

"We need to get this settled, alright? I can't take anymore tug-of-war, and I can't keep playing games. We need to behave like rational adults here because—"

"You know I love you, don't you?" she asked suddenly, her eyes inquisitive. "You do know that, right?"

He was startled for a moment by the question, but even more puzzled by his own response. "Yes, I do."

It really was that simple, wasn't it?

Did she love him? This was the simple question: yes, she did. She loved him because his eyes were the color of the Boston County Municipal Pool; she loved him because they had both spent their lives trying to breathe underwater, youthful, blue lungs bursting in search of air; she loved him because their silences did not carry the heavy, salty weight of the ocean, but of pure, weightless chlorine, whose essence was light and boundless, until you realized that you needed shampoo to get it out of your hair. And, most of all, she loved him because she remembered what it felt like, at age five, to sit like a rock at the bottom of the ocean, and think to herself: I could float forever.

"Then what's the problem?" she asked, scooting closer to him on the couch. "I mean, why can't we just _be_?"

"I don't know," he said. "Where do we start?"

"Anywhere," she said. "That's the best part about it, Woody – it's our game to play. We make up the rules."

"There are rules?"

She grinned. "More like guidelines, I think."

His expression turned serious. "So is there a winner? Is there a loser?"

Her smile faded. "Would you play if there was?"

"I don't know. I mean, I don't really know much anymore, Jordan, I feel so wrong, or just—"

"Not right," she finished.

He looked up at her. "Not right," he echoed. "I'm not doing this right, I'm not doing the case right…"

She stopped him. "What case?"

"You know – the one we're working on – homicide by hanging? Young college girl?"

"Ohmigod," she said suddenly, holding her head in her hands. "I can't believe I forgot."

"Forgot what?"

"The evidence – for Nigel. I was supposed to give him something huge today…"

"Huge? How huge are we talking here?"

"Gargantuan," she said, facing him. "It was suicide, Woody."

"Suicide, Jordan? That's not huge, that's…that's _massive_!"

She hung her head. "I'm sorry," she said meekly.

He gave her a surprising grin. "Don't be."

"May I ask why?"

"It's not my fault, then," he replied with a smug smile. "I didn't screw up, you did."

"Good sportsmanship, you sore loser."

"No, no, I mean – I wasn't wrong. I couldn't find any evidence because there was no evidence to find."

"Relieved?" she asked.

"Very," he responded, returning to his calmer tone. "Anyway, what were we talking about?"

"You won the game," she said with a smile.

"Wrong one, though."

"Doesn't matter."

The tone in the room was light, noncommittal -- different from the day before when every word said (or word not said) held a crushing weight. Suddenly, Jordan didn't feel constricted, hidden by the snow: she felt, for lack of a better word, _free._You didn't have to sell yourself to be in love, she realized, you just had to learn to share it.

He turned to her then, watching as she absently stared at Natalie curled up in the corner. "Do you think you love her?"

"Yes," she said (surprisingly) quickly. "You know – I always thought about having kids before, but never understood why – how do you know that you have to love your kid, you know?

"But then I realized that you have a kid to remember your own childhood – you learn all the things your mother said to you as a child, because you say it to your own."

"Is it that easy?"

"I don't think it's that hard."

And as she felt his lips upon hers, she felt like she was in a different kind of water – she was treading now, not sinking.

And she felt that even without a translator, she could hear his words loud and clear.

* * *

A/N: I know this seems like a very scattered story, but I promise it will all come together in the end. Homicide by hanging comes from first chapter. Poem from Philip Larkin, literary genius, and KEEP REVIEWING! I need more feedback guys! Three chapters and only eleven reviews – that's not so inspiring... 


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